HC that post!YBC Patrick and Joe both spend an unhealthy amount of time working in the studio to “cope.” Joe notices Patrick has a problem but insists it’s different when he himself does it because it “isn’t as bad.”
i've had both of these asks for almost two calendar years. i am SO fucking sorry about that. i'm gonna group these two together, and i hope this maybe makes up for it. 💖
"How's he doing?" Joe asks as he approaches, voice kept carefully low. Andy sighs, gently closing the door to the studio behind him.
"Patrick's fast asleep at the desk. He wore himself out with his episode earlier." Andy runs his hands over his hair, scraping at the shaven sides, and adds, "I was gonna move them both, but I know Patrick would probably flip out again if I did, so I just saved his work and threw a blanket over him."
"Good idea," Joe murmurs, then pauses. "Wait, both?"
"Pete's in there, too," Andy clarifies. "He passed out on the floor beside Patrick's chair."
Joe winces at that, brows knitting together. "Their backs are gonna kill 'em tomorrow."
"I know, but they're sleeping," Andy emphasizes, "and I'm not sure how long it's been since either of them have gotten more than an hour or two." He throws his hands up in faux surrender, backing away from the door as he says, "I'm not touching them. They can go ahead and hate me tomorrow if they wanna, I don't really care."
Joe elects just to shrug, and they fall into a pensive silence. Staring at the studio door, a familiar itch comes crawling up Joe's back; his fingers twitch where they're shoved into his pockets. He clears his throat softly, and his socks scuff against the carpet as he takes a deliberately-casual step forward.
"Ooookay, well, if they're both out for the night, I'm just gonna pop in quick and grab an acoustic–"
"Joe–"
"–I'll take it to the basement, don't worry, I'll make sure they don't hear me at all–"
"Joe."
"– I just wanna finish off that hook I had going earlier, I think I've almo–"
"Joe."
Joe freezes, fingers barely ghosting over the door handle. When he peers over his shoulder, Andy is already staring back, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His grey eyes are nearly black in the dim light of the hallway, and he looks tired. Guilt briefly squeezes its cold fist around Joe's ribs.
"Joe, it's nearly midnight," says Andy. He brings a hand up to rub at the sides of his nose (an old habit from when he still had his glasses he hasn't managed to kick yet), and falls against the opposite wall in defeat. His voice is unbearably soft as he pleads, "Come to sleep?"
And the thing is, Joe wants to.
He really does.
He just...
The thought of not finishing his work makes his stomach roll.
So instead of acquiescing, Joe crosses the hallway, leaning into Andy's space. He traces his fingertips, feather-light, over the ink-dark skin of Andy's forearms. Saccharine-sweet, he whispers, "I just wanna finish the hook. I'll do it quick, record it on my phone so I don't forget it in the morning, and then I'll be right there in bed. Then you can do your weird-ass impression of a spidermonkey-octopus thing while we cuddle like teenagers, or whatever." Joe tilts Andy's chin up to look him in the eye, flashing a reassuring grin at him. "Sound okay?"
Andy stares at Joe for a long moment. His typical silence feels more pronounced here, as his gaze darts all over Joe's face, seemingly searching for something there. That damned itch dances its way up Joe's spine again, leaving the chill of uneasiness in its wake; the corners of Joe's mouth crack like plaster as he forces his expression to stay light.
(He prays to anything for Andy not to notice.)
After another beat, Andy's shoulders slump, and a small smile graces his face. His hands find Joe's with practiced ease, weaving their fingers together tightly. He arches off the wall, using Joe's weight as leverage, and crowds so far into Joe's space that there's hardly anywhere left where they aren't touching.
"Just the hook?" Andy asks, his breath ghosting over Joe's lips as he cranes up, tip-toed, to nuzzle their noses together. Joe makes a small sound of assent, not trusting himself to say anything more as warm relief washes over him. He brings their joined hands up to his mouth and drops a lingering kiss on each of Andy's knuckles, his gaze trained on the way Andy's lashes flutter against his cheeks in response.
Andy's grip on him tightens for just a second, then falls slack as he whispers, "m'kay, go get the guitar. I'll meet you downstairs." At Joe's perplexed look, he adds, "I'm gonna come sit with you 'til you're done." Guilt lances through Joe once more, his eyes blowing wide.
"Dee, you don't have to stay up for me–"
"I don't have to, I want to. I like hearing you work." Andy cuts him off, with a finger against his lips. After a second, he shifts his hand, carefully cradling Joe's cheek. He smiles again, but it's tinged with something else, something that makes Joe's heart ache in his chest. "I just like you."
Sudden heat pricks at Joe's eyes and he quickly snaps them shut, leaning into Andy's touch. That awful itch, along with the guilt, takes a backseat in his brain for the time being, corralled there by the warmth of Andy's hand and the simplicity of his words; for just a moment, he savours it.
Before long, Andy's pulling away, nudging Joe towards the studio door. He gives Joe a stern warning about waking up Pete and Patrick as he walks away, and Joe keeps his eyes locked on Andy's back until he's completely disappeared from sight.
Quiet as a mouse, Joe slips into the studio. As promised, Patrick is bent over the desk, his folded arms shielding his face from view. Pete is sitting slumped beside him on the floor, unflatteringly open-mouthed and folded up like a pretzel. The throw blanket is haphazardly spread out over Patrick's broad shoulders, the edge fluttering mere inches over the crown of Pete's head. Even in sleep, the pair look utterly exhausted; Joe can't help the way he frowns.
He feels them. He's tired, too. Really fucking tired. And so is Andy.
But Joe can't stop yet, and Andy knows that. And Andy is waiting for him in the basement, because he's sweet like that. Because he's thoughtful.
Because Andy gets Joe, perhaps even more than Joe gets Joe, and he understands that Joe can't give it up quite yet.
Carefully, Joe slinks around the sleeping pair, grabbing his acoustic from the loveseat he'd abandoned it on earlier. On his way back out, the telltale whisper of fabric shifting stops Joe dead in his tracks at the door. Heart in his throat and apologies at the ready, he peers over his shoulder at Pete and Patrick.
Patrick has shifted in his sleep. His good arm has fallen into his lap, palm up. His slack hand is close enough to Pete's head that his fingers are tucked, just slightly, into Pete's dark hair. Pete snuffles, a little gross-sounding, and subconsciously leans into the contact.
Neither one stirs again. Watching them for a moment longer, Joe's smile grows a bit wobbly. Drawing in a deep breath, he eases the door shut once more, and leaves them to their slumber. (With any luck, they'll wake up at some point through the night, and at least have the sense to lay down on the furniture or something, but Joe's not counting on it.)
As Joe makes the descent to the basement, slinging the guitar strap over his shoulder on his way, his thoughts become preoccupied once more with the hook from earlier. Perhaps Andy, though sleepy and spent as he is from the day, may have some ideas for how Joe can nail it down.
After all, the sooner he does, and the sooner he satisfies the itch, the sooner Joe can get some rest, too.
He's just gotta finish, first.
